“Bye!” she calls, and she’s out the door.
I snatch my phone out of my purse—it’s a number I don’t recognize, but some urge or instinct has me answering. “Hello?”
“Elyse? This is Jamie.”
“Jamie, hi.” I close my eyes and breathe.
“Um, so…Aiden got hurt playing football today.”
I bolt up out of my chair, immediately heading for the door. “What? Where is he? What happened?”
“I’m on the way to the county hospital with him right now. He’s okay, he just…he twisted his ankle pretty badly.”
“Is it broken?”
“No, I don’t think so. Sprained, most likely.”
“Can I talk to him?” I ask, jogging to my car.
“Yeah, of course. Here he is.”
“Mama?” His voice is strained, as if he’s trying desperately to be tough—but he’s still an eight-year-old boy who wants his mom.
“Baby! Mr. Trent says you sprained your ankle?”
“I was catching a ball like that time I did when you saw it, and I landed wrong. It’s all swoled up and bruised.”
I’m already out of the parking lot—driving a little too fast, but my baby is hurt. “Does it hurt a lot?”
He sniffles. “Yeah, it hurts pretty bad. I cried a little when it first happened, but I’m trying to keep it together.”
I can’t help a laugh. “Oh, buddy. I’m gonna meet you at the hospital, okay?”
“Okay.” He’s quiet a moment. “Mom? Will I ever be able to play football again?”
I sniffle a laugh. “I’m sure you will, but probably not this season.” I sigh. “And, you know, therearesafer sports you can play.”
“But Ilovefootball. And I’m really, really good at it.”
“Aiden, honey—we’ll see, okay? For right now, let’s just focus on getting your ankle all better.”
“It hurts, Mom.”
I make a sympathetic sound. “I know, honey. Mr. Trent will get you to the hospital and they’ll help make it better, okay?”
“Okay.” He whimpers. “I’m gonna give the phone back to Coach Trent now.”
“Okay. I’ll see you soon.”
The line rustles and I hear Jamie’s voice. “We’re pulling into the hospital now. I’m not his parent or guardian, so…”
“I’m almost there.”
“Okay, see you in a minute.”
I toss my phone into my purse, which is sitting on the passenger seat. The last couple miles to the hospital seem to stretch out into infinity, taking far longer to drive than I imagined. I’m so tempted to nail the pedal to the floor that I force myself to put the car on cruise control at just above the speed limit.
When I finally get there, I find the emergency room nearly full—mostly kids dealing with sports injuries, a farmer with a bloody towel wrapped around a hand, and several pregnant women in labor. Aiden is sitting sideways in a chair, his foot propped up on Jamie’s knee, a Ziploc bag full of ice resting on a towel on his ankle; he has Jamie’s phone in both hands, turned to landscape, and I hear the telltale sounds ofNinjago. Jamie is half watching the show with Aiden, and half keeping an eye out for me.
